Last weekend while at Grandma Gretch and Grandpa Mike’s house, Anya learned the meaning of terror.

Daddy and brother were sitting outside on the deck taking in the sun, and Anya was inside with Mom and Grandma.  She crawled around the corner to the screen door by the deck and saw daddy and brother.  She crawled up to the door and stood up holding onto the door – all smiles.  All of a sudden she looked down and noticed the big hairy creature laying in front of the door just inches from her and completely freaked out.

I heard the screaming and thought she had hurt herself pretty bad.  It was the screaming of utter pain and not the “you’re not holding me” scream.  After running around the corner, and hearing her father laughing at her (bad, bad Daddy), I found out it was nothing but dog-induced terror.  The benevolent-wouldn’t-hurt-a-flea dog.  The dog that loves kids and kittens.  You would have thought he looked at her with hungry eyes, drooling and showing his canine incisors with little bits of baby flesh hanging off of them.  Instead he jumped up — all scared himself — wondering what he did and how he could help.  Poor puppy.

Meanwhile Anya is screaming and shaking.  After awhile she warmed up to him and would let him be in her vicinity without getting too upset.  No touching, though.  Touching is bad.